Who to each season charms peculiar gave,
Who bade old Ocean's never-ceasing wave
From shore to shore pour forth his boundless tide,
And o'er the vast expanse th' obeisant billows ride,
Ask thy own heart! if his Almighty hand,
Tho' thou but half the scheme may'st understand,
Could Age in vain, by impotent decree,
Have pour'd, Affliction's bitterest cup on thee?
-Nurs'd in the tempest, cradled in the storm,
Teems the young earth with vegetable form,
And from dark Winter's cold and barren wing,
Peeps the first dawning of the new-born spring;
So too shall man, Life's wintry season past,
Range in a spring, perpetual spring at last!
Meanwhile must Time, with ever-various dye,
Tinge the dark colours of Life's fleeting sky.
Yet tho' their sombre touches may erase
The tints of gladness in the human face,
And cast a pall of sadness o'er the soul
Borne down by tyrant Fortune's fierce controul;
Yet can they never quench that inner light
Which shines in sadness most divinely bright,
Which from afar illumes the realms of rest,
From the fair sunshine of an honest breast;
Which soothes in Friendship and in dreams of Love
Dimly anticipates that bliss above,
Where Hope alone shall every thought employ,
With unmixt ardour for the coming joy.
HEED no more the coming morrow,
Laugh at future care,
Snatch the present hour from sorrow,
Revel light as air!
Shed around a shower of roses,
Call on Music's powers:
We, while Dulness safe reposes,
Live the passing hours!
Fly, ye moody sons of Sadness;
Fly to desarts drear!
Here each bosom swells with gladness,
Mirth is master here.
Life to us its sweets discloses,
Strews our path with flowers;
We, while Dulness safe reposes,
Live the passing hours!
This song was written for a German Air, the words of which begin with "Bin ein braunes Schweitzer Mädchen," &c. or, in the English translation, " I'm a ruddy girl of Grison," &c.
WHY ceaseless do I sigh?
What mean my broken slumbers ?
From busy crouds why fly?
And breathe but mournful numbers?
O'tis love, 'tis love!
O my heart, why beating,
Dost thou ask to die,
That wish each hour repeating?
O'tis love, 'tis love!
Alas! to soothe my pain,
No hope my soul can borrow:
Still must I love in vain ;
Still nourish silent sorrow;
O my love, my love!
O my love! though sighing,
I will not complain,
But bless thee even in dying:
O my love, my love!
For a Monument to be erected in Weybridge Church, Surry, to the Memory of the late Mrs. Bunbury.
BY THE REV. J. WHITEHOUSE.
SWEET is the memory of departed worth,
And holy is the tear Affection sheds
On the cold urn of one beloved. Here oft
The faithful Friend shall come and heave a sigh
O'er Katherine's honoured relics. Where are now
The beauty that once charmed, the faultless form,
The mind-illumined features? What availed
Favor or high distinction?* She has dropped
From the bright orb where once she shone, and made
The dust her dwelling. Gladsome rose her morn
Of life, with many a smiling prospect fair
Of blissful years in view, but soon o'ercast
It loured in sorrow. Heaven was pleased to try
Her faith by suffering, and to wean her soul
From Earth's allurements. To its high behest
Meekly she bowed: but not Fate's darkest frown
*This Lady was honoured by the particular regard of her Royal Highness the Duchess of York.
Could ruffle her calm spirit, or subdue
The generous feelings of her heart which glowed
With pure benevolence. In Friendship's school
Well had she learnt those lessons which exalt
The noble mind above each selfish aim;
And she was ever ready to speak peace
To others woes, and in the mourner's breast
To pour the balm of comfort. Thus her days
Ran in a blessed course, with Hope and Joy
And Patience in their train; and when she died,
These seraph-virtues to the throne of God
Attended her. Stranger, if chance thine eye
Glance on this tablet, pass not heedless on,
But pause; and know it is a warning voice
To be thyself prepared and should thy strength
Be insufficient for the task, and thou
Needest the grace divine to be thy help,
Ask it of God, and he will give it thee.
On a Natural Grotto, near a deep Stream.
HEALTH, rose-lip'd cherub, haunts this spot :She slumbers oft' in yonder nook :
If in the shade you trace her not,
Plunge and you'll find her in the Brook!
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